


Obscured Flames

by sarkymoocow (parenthetical)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Angst, Doom, M/M, everyone dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-13
Updated: 2004-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parenthetical/pseuds/sarkymoocow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the refusal to choose is a choice. And like all choices, you must live - or die - with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obscured Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely Wyntre, with thanks to Mijan for her support.

The world seemed plunged into night.

Even in this wide valley, Draco felt claustrophobic. It wasn’t so much the mountains looming behind him; no, it was the sky, shadow-grey and pressing down around him, he thought distractedly, picking his way through the corpses littering the scorched battleground. He knew, logically, that the sun, moon and stars hadn’t really been burned away by the events of that day; it was simply the hazy, smoky residue of all the magic, rising slowly and leaving Draco in this numb, shadowy non-light.

So many people who’d viewed everything in black and white, he thought bitterly, and all they’d accomplished was to leave everything grey.

~*~

Draco remembers when Pansy Parkinson came to stay at the Manor for the first time, before they went to Hogwarts.

He has never been able to forget the awe on Pansy’s face when she first saw the tapestry depicting the Malfoy family tree, and reached out a trembling finger to trace the thin gold line linking ‘_Narcissa_’ to ‘_Bellatrix_’.

“_Bellatrix Lestrange_ is your aunt?” she had whispered, voice hushed with reverence, turning to him with wide, shining eyes. “She’s a heroine, a legend! The Dark Lord’s truest follower!”

Draco had shrugged. “I’ve never met her. Father says she’s in Azkaban, but I’m not to ask questions about her because Mother would get upset.”

“Upset?” Pansy had gasped. “She should be _proud_!” And she had recounted with great relish the legend of Bellatrix Lestrange, the Death Eater who had remained true to the Dark Lord when all others had deserted him, cursing the Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers defiling the wizarding world even as they dragged her away to Azkaban.

“She stood up for us pure-bloods even when everyone else just went along with the Muggle-lovers so they wouldn’t have to go to Azkaban. She’ll escape one day, though, and then they’ll all be sorry.”

He remembers her longing sigh, and the way she had reached out to lightly caress the gold lettering once more, murmuring, “When I grow up, I’m going to be just like Bellatrix Lestrange.”

~*~

A bright flash of red among the corpses caught Draco’s eye, and he moved closer to confirm his suspicions. Sure enough, it was Weasley, blood dyeing his hair an even deeper shade of red, eyes glaring accusingly at Draco even in death. So that tangled mop of brown hair crumpled next to him would be Granger, no doubt. Dying together, side by side, just as they’d lived.

Well, at least he knew now that he was heading in the right direction, Draco thought, about to move on. And then stopping as he suddenly recognised the Death Eater lying across from the two Gryffindors. Her hair was stained with mud and a hex had disfigured half her face, but it was still unmistakably Pansy.

For a long moment, Draco simply stood and stared at his childhood friend, wondering how the scene had played out. Who had cast the first hex? Which of the Gryffindors had been struck down by Pansy’s Killing Curse, and which had survived long enough to exact their revenge?

But then again, Draco thought, tearing his eyes away, it hardly mattered now.

~*~

Draco remembers asking his father about Bellatrix Lestrange after Pansy had left. He had been slightly troubled by things she had told him. After all, while his father often talked about how Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers were ruining the wizarding world, he only ever did so in private, never in public. _He_ hadn’t gone proudly to Azkaban rather than betray the Dark Lord or renounce his beliefs.

His father had listened attentively, then looked Draco in the eyes and told him to remember, always, what he was about to tell him.

He had told him that no true Slytherin, no self-respecting pure-blood, and _certainly_ no Malfoy, would ever be so foolish as to allow himself to be imprisoned for his beliefs. A Malfoy placed his own interests first. He never truly chose a side, but instead played all sides off against each other.

If Bellatrix Lestrange had claimed to be acting under the Imperius Curse, his father had said, she could already have taken her revenge. Instead, her inability to stop her principles from overriding her instinct for self-preservation had left her withering away in Azkaban, cornered, powerless and helpless. Blind loyalty regardless of the cost or the situation was a _Hufflepuff_ trait, not a Slytherin one.

A Malfoy never allowed himself to become powerless, his father had stressed. And power came from having options, possibilities. Having a private preference was perfectly acceptable, but making a final choice cut off other options and diminished your power. The Slytherin strategy was to play for time and keep all options open for as long as possible. The power to choose, at the most favourable time for yourself, was the greatest power of all.

Draco had nodded slowly, and remembered.

~*~

The harsh cry of a bird somewhere overhead made Draco look up sharply, but it was hidden above the magical residue still clouding the air. He shouldn’t have been startled, he realised. Once the magic cleared somewhat, the scavengers would no doubt close in.

He returned his gaze to the ground just in time to avoid stumbling over Snape’s body. His professor was surrounded by the corpses of both Death Eaters and Aurors; it was impossible for Draco to tell which side Snape had been fighting on, or which side had killed him.

Draco had never been certain where Snape’s true allegiance lay, though he knew that both sides had considered him their spy. Personally, Draco had always wondered whether Snape was like him, trying to avoid committing fully to either side and to delay the choice for as long as possible.

He wished that he knew which side Snape had finally chosen, when left with no option but to choose. He would never know, now; either way, Snape had taken his decision to his grave. Or perhaps, Draco thought, it would be more accurate to say that his decision had taken him.

~*~

Draco remembers the feast at the end of his seventh year at Hogwarts. There had been far fewer faces at all the tables by then, and the sight of black mourning banners hanging where house emblems would once have flourished had become routine.

Weasley and Granger had flanked Harry, one on either side and keeping close enough to touch him, rather than sitting together hand in hand as they usually did. Harry had been seemingly oblivious to that and all else around him; he had sat gazing silently at the table, clearly lost in his own thoughts.

Dumbledore’s speech has also lingered in Draco’s memory, although he tries to forget the manipulative fool’s words. The Headmaster had talked about the darkness closing in on the wizarding world, and how it would not triumph while a haven of light continued to defy it. He said that all those who wished to seek sanctuary and protection at Hogwarts would receive it. These were times when everyone faced difficult choices, decisions which would determine not only their own future, but also that of the entire wizarding world. Choices which could perhaps be delayed, but not evaded.

Dumbledore had warned them not to underestimate the importance of their choices; each and every one of them had a role to play in defeating the darkness – some larger, some smaller, but all vital. Their decision, he had concluded, eyes resting on Draco for a long, unsettling moment, could be the one that would tip the balance and make all the difference. And so he wished them all well, and hoped they would consider their choices carefully.

Draco remembers Harry suddenly looking up from the table to stare directly at him. A challenge had been blazing in his eyes, and a painful shard of hope beneath the despair.

Later that night, Draco had told his father in a hurried firetalk that he intended to stay at Hogwarts and not take sides in the war. His father’s immediate approval had taken him by surprise, though perhaps it shouldn’t have done. It was a wise decision, his father had told him, and he was glad that Draco was remembering the lessons he had been taught.

He remembers how proud his father’s smile had been as in parting he said, “No matter which side wins, Draco, I will see you again once it is all over.”

~*~

The fog of the magical residue was growing thicker, lower; Draco could only see a few feet in front of himself now, and he knew he must be getting close to the centre of the battlefield.

His suspicions were confirmed when he spotted the crumpled body of Albus Dumbledore. The old wizard was lying face-down, hat gone, broken wand in the mud beside him.

Draco didn’t even pause. He’d never trusted the old fool and his meddling, manipulative ways. He had no respects to pay here.

~*~

Draco remembers the gradual change which had taken place between Potter and himself during their sixth year at Hogwarts; how unsettling it had become to look at the Gryffindor, how difficult it had been to put him out of his mind, how sometimes when they fought the world had seemed to shrink down to just the two of them. And the confused, wondering expression he would catch in Potter’s eyes when he thought that Draco hadn’t noticed him staring.

Most of all, however, he remembers the moment when everything changed. He remembers Harry standing too close to him, eyes burning in a way that left Draco breathless. And he had felt the air around him suddenly shimmering with a whole new spectrum of possibilities opening up, the _potential_ that the moment held for him.

That was one of the differences between the two of them, Draco had thought dizzily, unable to move or tear his eyes away. Harry was unable to appreciate the power of possibilities or potential. What he wanted, what he loved, he had to reach out and claim at once.

Then Harry had reached for him and brought their lips together, and Draco forgot to consider his options, instead twining his fingers in Harry’s hair to pull him closer, allowing the kiss to consume him.

~*~

The fog drew back slightly, and there he was.

Draco stared. He’d known, yet part of him had refused to believe it until now.

Harry was so still; for a moment, Draco could almost imagine that he was only sleeping. That if he shook him, Harry would blink open his eyes, greener than before, and reach for him.

But when Draco sank to the ground and touched his face, Harry was cold, far too cold. Heat, Draco thought stupidly. Gryffindor was the fiery house, even their colours were gold and red. Harry needed heat, he should light a fire... And then he caught up with his thoughts. It was too late for him to help now. He’d called Harry a phoenix more than once, but no fire Draco could conjure would bring his lover back to him now.

Draco stared around. Would it have made any difference if he’d been there for the battle? Perhaps he could have killed that Death Eater over there, and maybe that one too; perhaps then Harry would have had enough energy to defeat Voldemort, or time to see the curse coming and block it. Perhaps Harry would have been the one cradling Draco’s unmoving body, or they would be lying side by side on the cold earth. Or perhaps he would be kissing Harry as desperately as he was now, but Harry’s lips would be warm and responsive, not so cold and uncaring that they leeched away the last remnants of Draco’s hope.

He would never know. He had thought the outcome predetermined, that his presence would make no difference. And so refusing to choose a side had seemed the easiest option, indeed the most sensible one.

Now, though, he couldn’t help but wonder.

~*~

Draco remembers waking up with the taste of salt tears in his mouth, and opening his eyes to see Harry hastily turning away to bury his face in the pillow.

Draco had paused for a moment, tasting the salt and sizing up the situation, before he shifted to his side and reached out for his lover, tangling his fingers in dark hair until finally Harry had turned back to face him, eyes dry now, but hopeless.

“You really don’t care, do you?” Harry had asked softly.

Draco had frowned in confusion. “What do you me-”

“You really don’t care whether it’s Voldemort or me who dies, do you? Even now, after everything that’s – that’s happened between us, you...” Harry’s voice wavered and broke, and he swallowed hard.

Draco had flinched at the sound of that forbidden name, and leant forward as Harry broke off, pressing their lips together, wishing for his lover to stay silent, to stop bringing up things better left unspoken. Harry accepted the kiss, but with a shakiness that told Draco he was growing more upset, rather than being comforted. Abruptly, Draco pulled back to exclaim, almost despairingly, “Of _course_ I care!”

Harry had blinked at him in confusion, and Draco had buried his face against Harry’s neck to avoid seeing the pain in those eyes, murmuring, “Of course I want you to be the one who lives. You actually think that I... Of course I _care_! Do you really think I could _not_ care?”

He had felt Harry’s arms wrap hesitantly around him, and had gone on before his lover could interrupt him. “Of course I want you to win – and you _will_. I know you will. But my being there wouldn’t make any difference, Harry. You’re going to win whether I’m there or not. And if I _did_ go out there I could be killed. Not to mention the fact that my family, my friends, my _father_ will be there tomorrow – are you really asking me to go out and try to kill them?”

“I’m not- ” Harry had tried to protest, but Draco didn’t pause.

“You know I don’t give a damn about Dumbledore’s precious cause and noble principles. The only thing I care about on your side is _you_. Do you really want me to make that choice? Abandon my family and name just to stand beside you in a battle where I’d make no difference anyway?”

“No,” Harry whispered. “That’s not true, you know, Draco. You make all the difference to me. Always. Just by _being_ there, you make a difference. But I... I do understand your choice. And you know I respect it.”

Draco had felt suddenly cold. “I’m _not_ choosing, Harry, that’s the whole point.”

“If you say so, Draco. It doesn’t matter.” Then Harry had been kissing him with a desperation and longing to which Draco could not help but respond. And for the remainder of the night, he was far too distracted dwell on the spark of fear that had been kindled at the back of his mind.

~*~

“Draco.”

Draco looked up, and then scrambled hastily to his feet. “Father!”

“I wondered if I might find you here. I went to Hogwarts to inform you of our victory, but evidently word had already reached you,” Lucius Malfoy said, smiling.

Draco said nothing. No word had reached him; that was how he had known the outcome.

His father was in full flow, recounting the battle: “...finally settled some scores with that old fool Dumbledore. Of course, the Potter boy didn’t stand a chance after that, he was vastly outnumbered. The Dark Lord finished him off rather quickly, really...”

Draco looked away, feeling sick, and tried to keep his face blank. He was jolted back to reality by the sound of his own name.

“...very proud of you, Draco. Staying out of this war until the outcome had been decided was a most wise decision. And the Dark Lord will be pleased to welcome you among his followers, particularly now that our numbers have been so... drastically reduced.” Lucius gestured at the corpse-strewn battlefield. “We should Apparate directly back to the Manor, He will be waiting for us. But first...”

Lucius pointed his wand in the direction where Harry lay. “_Incendio_!”

Draco gasped and almost moved to intervene, even though he knew that nothing could cause Harry more pain now. He stared in shock at the flames crawling towards his lover’s body.

Lucius didn’t notice his son’s reaction; he was busy casting the spell in other directions, too, gesturing with his wand to fan the flames higher, ensuring they would spread swiftly across the battlefield. Finally, he nodded in satisfaction.

“There. Far better than letting the scavengers have them – some ancient, pure-blooded wizarding lines were ended here today. Besides, we wouldn’t want any Muggles stumbling across this. The Dark Lord doesn’t believe in giving warnings... Come, Draco, we are expected at the Manor.”

“No,” Draco said dazedly, without thinking, eyes still fixed on the flames caressing Harry’s fingers. Then he caught himself. “No, I... need to go back to Hogwarts first and collect my belongings. Go ahead, Father, we don’t want to keep Him waiting. It should only take me a few minutes.”

Lucius nodded his agreement. “Very well, Draco, I will see you shortly.” He hesitated for a moment, then reached out to clasp his son’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you again at last. Be sure you don’t waste too much time at Hogwarts.”

Draco forced a smile. “I won’t, Father.”

Returning the smile, Lucius released him and Disapparated.

Draco turned and hurried towards his lover’s side, but it was too late – the flames were taking hold, and the heat forced him back. Gryffindor red and gold, flickering tenderly around the body of the boy who had once been so proud to wear those colours.

All the choices Draco had guarded so jealously, the future he’d dared to hope for, fading to smoke before his eyes. There was only one choice left for him to make now... to bow before the one who had taken Harry from him, or...

_You make all the difference to me. Always. Just by **being** there, you make a difference._

The fire was spreading, raging across the battlefield now, flickering light throwing all else into shadow. Smoke was rising, mingling with the magical residue to cast the valley into what felt like never-ending night.

Draco sank to his knees, breathing in the acrid smell of smoke, despair and death. He knew the flames were closing in around him, and what the consequences would be if he lingered much longer. But still he was unable to tear his eyes from the sight of his lover being consumed by the fire...

And finally, Draco chose.


End file.
